


Indiana Crack

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crack, Drabble, Gen, Rodney is Indian Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gentleman, unexpectedly, raises without a start and tosses him a wry smile before placing the shard exactly in its previous position. "Hello, Doctor McKay. It's a good thing I've been warned about you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indiana Crack

The classroom is musty, full of old books that have become so permeated with dust that they perfume the air, clouding it until everything has a sepia tone. Rodney surveys the smartly dressed gentleman curved over his desk, examining things he probably has no understanding of.

Most of them don't, after all. Morons, every one.

"I'm sorry, shall I come back after you've finished fondling my work?" Rodney's not sure why he said that. Something about the gentleman's hands, long-fingered and oddly gentle looking as they cradled a silvery shard he still hasn't completely identified, makes him think of furtive encounters and moments of unintended voyeurism, touches full of intimate intent.

The gentleman, unexpectedly, raises without a start and tosses him a wry smile before placing the shard exactly in its previous position. "Hello, Doctor McKay. It's a good thing I've been warned about you."

"Warned about my genius?" Rodney bustles past the gentleman, placing his jacket over his suitcase after a second's thought. He's _relatively_ certain the whip won't show through, but after having dealt with some of his more blatant disbelievers, he's not interested in taking the chance. Impeccable, improbable results go a long way, but sometimes not even that is enough. "I should hardly think you need warning."

"Actually, I meant your manners. You're right, nobody warns about your genius." The gentleman’s smile modulates into something warmer, charming despite the edge of sardonic observation: a lie if ever Rodney saw one. "I'm John Sheppard."

"And how, exactly, did your bribe your way past Teyla's capable hands?"

Sheppard looks momentarily confused. "Teyla? I spoke to Carson, the head of your department..."

Rodney sorts, already halfway through his customary systematic check of his work -- papers, artifacts, and the tautness of his chair. Because there's _never_ espionage in archeology. "Carson may be the name on the plates, unfortunately, but I assure you, Mr. Sheppard, Teyla is the one who controls our little fiefdom. What do you want?"

"I was hoping to hire you."

It's not the first time Rodney's heard that. Not the fifth, even. But never has that phrase evoked such _imagery_ in Rodney's head, a breath of sordid behavior that should have had Rodney ruffling in affront. Certainly not locking his knees, for fear they might give beneath him. "You look like a put together gentleman, Mr. Sheppard," and oh, that's come out so very wrong, "what do you need me for?"

"Put together?"

Flustered, Rodney knows he's going red. "Oh, like it's not obvious you're dripping with money. I know the cut of your suit, sir," and the muscles that swell beneath the fine material, damn his mind for noticing that, "and your kind do not associate with musty old archaeology professors."

"That's not really accurate, Dr. McKay, but even if it were," Sheppard leans forward, and the expression he wears is so full of promise that Rodney has to believe he’s not imagining this, "we _do_ interact with treasure hunters."

"I am a professor!"

"A professor that hunts treasure," Sheppard responds easily. "Relax, Doctor, I'm not casting aspersions on your career. I want to hire your expertise."

"Oh?" The department's not so flush that Rodney can turn down prospective financiers away, no matter how much he wishes he could. Particularly when, once again, Sheppard picks up the most intriguing piece of the lot, the one etched in Greek, Etruscan, and something much, much older. He hasn't been able to identify it yet. 

Silver glints against the rounded tips of Sheppard's fingers, with almost bluish tones Rodney would swear weren’t there a second ago.

Sheppard looks at him from beneath his lashes, still warm, still amused, and says, "I'm looking for Atlantis, Dr. McKay. And I think I've found the map."


End file.
